


A piacere, con brio

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Super Junior-M
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry likes Ryeowook. Ryeowook likes Henry. It should be easy, but something gets lost in translation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A piacere, con brio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diagon/gifts).



“Yo, yo, yo,” Henry yodels as he slouch-strides into the kitchen one morning. It’s after ten o’clock, and everyone else is up. Siwon and Donghae are away filming, but the rest of them have the day off. Sungmin is frowning at his phone, Zhou Mi is picking through the latest pile of gifts sent by fans, and Hyukjae is standing over Kyuhyun offering apparently unwanted advice on whatever he’s doing online.

Ryeowook is washing the dishes. A huge pile of dishes and pots and pans. The weird thing is, he seems to be washing dishes that are already clean and dry.

“Good morning, Henry,” Zhou Mi says in Mandarin.

“Hello,” says Sungmin in Korean.

“How’s it going?” Hyukjae says in English.

Kyuhyun just makes a noise that could be construed as a greeting.

Ryeowook clatters one dish against another and runs more hot water into the sink.

Henry wanders across the room and picks up a packet of cereal. He eyes the dishes. There are two clean, unwashed bowls in front of him. He starts to reach out, even gets as far as touching one, before Ryeowook says, “Don’t. It’s not clean.”

“Looks clean to me.” Henry hooks a finger over the rim of the bowl and drags it towards him.

“Not clean,” Ryeowook repeats, squeezing out the dishcloth into the bowl.

“Yo, what?” Henry stares at him in mock dismay and opens his arms wide, still holding the cereal box. “Just want my breakfast, man. That bowl looked clean to me.”

“Yes, well.” Ryeowook flips the long sweep of his fringe out of his eyes. The waterlogged bowl and its mate go into the sink. “What do you know about clean, hmm?”

“That’s uncalled-for cruelty at this time of morning,” Henry complains. “At any time, actually.” He untucks the flap on the cereal packet and stuffs his hand inside, scooping up the multigrain Cheerios and shoving them into his mouth. “Now see what you made me do,” he says, or tries to say, around the crunch of the cereal.

Ryeowook wrinkles his nose and does that cute thing with his mouth, halfway between a moue and a look of uncertainty—or in this case, disgust. He backs away, but before Henry can open the fridge door and grab some milk, Ryeowook picks up a tea towel and holds it out in silent command.

Henry puts his free hand—fingertips sticky with whatever shit they put on Cheerios—on his chest. “Me? Why?”

“You’re here,” Ryeowook says succinctly. “You can dry up. After all, you need a bowl so you can eat like a civilised man.”

“Civilised?” Henry says, stuffing more cereal into his face until his cheeks bulge. “I’m Canadian.”

Sungmin and Hyukjae snort, which was the reaction he wanted. Ryeowook just looks at him until he withers, puts down the Cheerios, and takes the tea towel.

“Okay, why am I drying up dishes that are already clean?” Henry holds the tea towel by two corners and snaps it like a matador shaking out a cape. He tosses it into the air, spins on one foot, and catches the cloth before it falls. He looks at the others. None of them are remotely impressed by his antics. “And why isn’t anyone else helping?”

Zhou Mi lifts his head. “No one else was stupid enough.”

Ryeowook turns and flicks hot water bubbles in Zhou Mi’s direction. “Henry is being kind.”

“Henry has—” Zhou Mi switches from Mandarin into Korean and finishes his sentence with a phrase Henry doesn’t know.

Ryeowook obviously knows, because he draws in his breath and sparks a look at Zhou Mi before swinging around and plunging his hands back into the soapy water. Henry swallows the remaining mouthful of cereal and shoots a quizzical glance at Sungmin and Hyukjae, who seem to be trying not to laugh.

Just awesome. He’s the butt of the joke again. He doesn’t mind so much, in fact he encourages it most of the time, because at least when he’s making people laugh, he feels included—but occasionally, just every now and then, he wishes he didn’t have to play the dorky foreigner.

Henry pastes a smile on his face and stuffs in another handful of cereal. It tastes dry and disgusting, and he shoves away the box, chewing frantically, swallowing to force the Cheerios mush past the lump in his throat. He grabs a plate from the mound on the draining board and dries it with brisk efficiency and over-attention.

“It’s nothing bad,” Ryeowook says softly. His hair is in his eyes again, but this time he doesn’t brush it back. He’s standing very still, his lashes tangled in the silk of his fringe. He looks sideways at Henry, just quickly. “Nothing bad against you. Believe me.” Colour climbs to his cheeks and he tosses his head, blows at his fringe, and dumps more plates into the sink.

Henry shifts his attention back to the teetering pile of wet dishes. If it’s nothing bad against him, then Zhou Mi must’ve been teasing Ryeowook. That’s kind of a crappy thing to do. Yeah, usually they all tease one another or bitch at each other as soon as they open their mouths, but usually Ryeowook brushes off such comments with laughter or shakes his head and hides his mouth behind his hands or makes loud, giggling complaint. He doesn’t blush and go all quiet, and Henry feels bad that he’s the cause, however indirectly, of such hushed embarrassment.

“So, like, _why_ are we doing dishes that are already clean?” he asks.

“We,” Ryeowook gives him a blinding smile, one that socks him in the gut with its perfection, “we are doing the dishes again because Donghae did them last night. He posted a picture online of him pretending to wash up.”

Henry dries another three plates and starts on the bowls. “Probably he got his manager to do them. Or Siwon.”

“He _says_ he did them all himself.” Ryeowook sounds arch. “He _says_ the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes.” He sniffs. “He’s _such_ a terrible liar.”

“So,” Henry tries to work this out, “we’re doing the dishes because Hae pretended to clean dishes that were already clean?”

Ryeowook flicks back his hair with soapy fingers and gives him another bright smile. “In essence, yes.”

Henry stacks the bowls. “Dude, is there the remotest possibility that, just maybe, you might be, y’know, over-reacting?”

“Oh, Henry.” Ryeowook looks amused. “Would you trust Donghae to wash up correctly?”

“Uh,” says Henry, “like, am I the person you should be asking?”

Ryeowook trembles with laughter. “Probably not.”

Henry blushes and scrubs at a mixing bowl. He knows there’s a procedure for washing up—a ritual, more like—one developed by Ryeowook and followed no matter which dorms or which country they’re in. It’s a kind of safety net, something familiar. Henry understands that more than most.

He hurries with the drying up, clearing the draining board within a few minutes. He leans on his elbows and watches Ryeowook wash and rinse the pots and pans. There’s a precision in his actions, but that’s Ryeowook all over. He acts like he’s already achieved perfection and doesn’t want to let it slip, even if it’s only in the perfect way to wash dishes.

Henry thinks about this, and he thinks about Ryeowook’s slender body, and the two things conjoin somehow into an idea, and his mouth opens and he says, “I want to cook with you today.”

Ryeowook turns his head. Stares. “You do?”

There’s no need for him to look so surprised. It’s not like Henry said, “Yo, Wookie, let’s screw”—and he has no idea why that example came to mind, either, but it’s in his head now and he has to shake off the mental images before he meets Ryeowook’s suspicion-sharp gaze.

“Yeah. It’ll be fun.” And weirdly enough, he thinks it _will_ be fun, and not because he plans on switching off the oven or over-salting the dish, either. Henry spins on his heel and snaps the damp tea towel at the others. “Tonight,” he announces, “I’m going to make meatballs and tagliatelle!” The last three words he flourishes in English with a bad Italian accent.

Sungmin looks up with interest, but Hyukjae says, “Do you think we could have some normal food first, and then have the other thing?”

Kyuhyun cackles.

Henry ignores him. “Meatballs and tagliatelle are not dessert.” He grabs a wooden spoon and pounds it on the kitchen counter. “You will eat it and you will like it!”

Hyukjae looks worried.

“I’ll be helping him,” Ryeowook adds.

“Ah.” Hyukjae’s concerned expression softens into relief. “That’s okay, then. Should’ve said so earlier. We’ll eat it. Whatever it is.”

* * *

Tagliatelle is off the menu. They can’t find any in Carrefour, so Henry decides to buy pasta shaped like elk heads from IKEA instead.

“Is that a type of reindeer?” Ryeowook asks, fingering the pasta shapes through the cellophane covering on the box.

“Nah, it’s bigger.” Henry tries to demonstrate the size of an elk by waving his arms in the air. “It’s huge. Like a moose. Actually, it’s the same thing. A moose is an elk. Which is like a really big reindeer.”

Ryeowook looks confused, but he smiles and nods and they purchase the pasta.

Back at the dorms, Henry makes sure no one is in the vicinity of the kitchen. The only audience he wants is Ryeowook. Fortune favours him, and Henry empties the bags of groceries onto the table.

“You can be my sous-chef,” he says to Ryeowook, and starts issuing orders. Ryeowook obeys, setting out a mixing bowl and a wok and a chopping board and a sharp knife. Henry realises at that moment that maybe he should’ve looked up an actual recipe, but decides it doesn’t really matter. They’ve already done the shopping, and he’s fairly certain they got the most important component parts of the meal. It’s not like anyone’s going to care, as long as the food is edible.

Making the meatballs is easy. Henry tips the ground meat into the mixing bowl, seasons it, and adds an egg when Ryeowook suggests including it. Then he shoves his hands in the bowl and pulps the lot together. After squishing randomly for a while, he starts rolling small pieces into balls and sets them on a tray.

“You make some, too,” he tells Ryeowook. “This is the best part.”

Ryeowook pushes up his sleeves and joins in. His hands are long and narrow. It looks kind of obscene to see them covered in grease and herbs and a mixture of pork and beef mince, but it would sound stupid if Henry asked him to stop now. They stand close together over the bowl, and the only sound is the squidge of the meat.

Ryeowook forms his meatballs with careful precision, every one almost exactly the same as the other. He makes a neat row on the tray. Henry’s meatballs are large and prone to splitting. Ryeowook divides the larger meatballs without comment. He keeps his gaze on his task, but sometimes, unconsciously, he blows at the swinging ends of his fringe.

Henry looks up at that sound. His fingers dabble in meat and he stares at Ryeowook’s mouth and the sharp descending line of his cheek into his chin. He stares at the strained-honey-gold glaze of Ryeowook’s hair and the slick of mascara on his lashes. He stares until it’s troubling, and then Henry drops his gaze and makes another meatball.

Finally the ground meat is gone and the meatballs, all of mostly uniform size and shape, are placed on the tray in the fridge to firm up. That was Ryeowook’s idea. Now for the sauce.

“We should measure the ingredients,” Ryeowook says.

“No, we shouldn’t.” Henry opens a can of plum tomatoes and dumps them into the wok, then spends a couple of minutes stabbing at them with the edge of a wooden spoon until they lose their shape and go all mushy. “Another can. Actually, let’s use two more. Three more!”

It’s only when the tomatoes are bubbling away that Henry remembers that the sauce needs onions and garlic in it, too. He gets Ryeowook to peel and mince the garlic while he tackles the onions.

“Should we have done this first?” Ryeowook asks as he taps the garlic mush into the tomatoes.

“No,” Henry says, then adds, “but some people do.”

Ryeowook turns his head to hide his laughter.

They add salt and sugar and pepper and another clove of garlic, then throw in some random herbs. Henry turns the heat up; Ryeowook turns it down. They squabble good-naturedly over stirring the sauce. Henry finds a soup spoon and dips it into the mixture. He blows on it, then notices Ryeowook looking at him. It’s only polite to offer him first taste. Henry holds out the spoon. “Try it?”

He’s holding the spoon a little too high. Ryeowook lifts towards it, chin going up, revealing the length of his throat. Henry stares, forgets to lower the spoon. His attention flicks from Ryeowook’s throat to his lips, hesitant around the bowl of the spoon as if he fears the sauce will be too hot. A flash of teeth, of tongue, and then his mouth closes around the spoon and he slurps up the sauce. Yeah, he actually slurps, and it shouldn’t sound as sexy as it does, because Henry’s fairly certain that when _he_ slurps sauce, he just sounds like a pig.

Ryeowook sways back from the spoon, eyes closing just a little as he considers the taste. Henry holds his breath, awaiting judgement. He totally guessed at the whole thing, the quantities and shit, so it might be a complete fail, but he wants it to be good, he wants it to be awesome, he wants Ryeowook to be blown away by his expertise.

“Mm,” says Ryeowook at last, looking up all bright-eyed, “not bad.”

Not bad. Henry can accept that. No, he embraces it. That’s praise. Grinning, he dips the spoon again and takes a big mouthful of the sauce. It burns his tongue. He holds back an unmanly yelp and focuses on the flavour. It’s fine, yeah, but it’s missing something—a touch more sweetness, a little more bite.

“We need—” he begins, moving towards the clutter of bottles and jars on the counter.

“Sweet chilli sauce,” Ryeowook says, heading in the same direction.

Like stars they collide, not a big bang nor even a soft thud but a bump that nevertheless rocks Henry from his axis. And because he’s not thinking, because he’s reacting on instinct, he puts an arm around Ryeowook’s waist. The logic is, of course, that if he feels unsteady, then Ryeowook must feel unsteady, too. But logic overlooks a lot of other issues, such as the fact that Ryeowook seems a lot more balanced than Henry.

Henry is also holding onto the spoon. The spoon-wielding arm is draped around Ryeowook. Possibly there’s still some sauce on the spoon, and Henry doesn’t want to transfer it onto Ryeowook’s shirt, so he jerks his hand back and does a sort of awkward crab-like move to the side and ditches the spoon into the sink.

“Uh,” he says, “sweet chilli sauce would do it, yeah.”

He lets Ryeowook fetch the bottle, watches him drip a measured amount into the sauce. Then his pride reasserts itself and Henry takes up the wooden spoon, turns up the heat again, and agitates the sauce with what he hopes is Jamie Oliver panache.

The sauce comes to the boil. Bubbles form and pop, sending splats of tomato everywhere, over the counter, the hob, onto their clothes. They both reach to turn down the heat, Ryeowook snug against Henry’s body without seeming to be aware of it. Ryeowook turns to say something, realises their proximity, and freezes. They stare at each other.

Henry has half a dozen muddled thoughts. At least five of them involve kissing Ryeowook.

As if he can read Henry’s mind—a terrifying idea—Ryeowook’s lips part and his eyelashes flutter and he gets this look about him that’s almost sultry. It’s breathtaking, the shock of it, the power of it, and Henry tries to ground himself, like— _hot surface, hot sauce, the others will come in soon_ —and then he stops thinking as Ryeowook reaches up and touches the side of Henry’s mouth.

Ryeowook’s expression goes from brooding to soft. His fingertip slides towards Henry’s lips. He stops; laughs, breathless and enchanting. “You have sauce,” he says, “just here,” and he wipes his finger over Henry’s chin.

Henry knows he didn’t have sauce there.

A door opens; closes. Henry takes a step away from Ryeowook. It’s a big step. He doesn’t mean for it to be quite that exaggerated, but it’s not like he can take baby steps back towards him, is it? And because he moves away from the stove, he’s away from the glow of heat and now he feels cold, and that’s just stupid.

“Something smells good!” Sungmin calls as he wanders into the kitchen.

Ryeowook smiles, makes ready to wave the praise over to Henry, but there’s nothing to praise but tomato sauce, because oh, _crap_ — “The meatballs!” Henry blurts, pointing at the fridge. “The pasta!”

Sungmin looks startled. Ryeowook puts a hand to his mouth.

Henry yanks open the fridge door and grabs at the tray. There’s probably an art to cooking meatballs that involves placing them at regular intervals in the sauce, but he doesn’t have time for that and so he dumps the lot into the wok and pokes at them with the wooden spoon. Some of the meatballs—probably the ones he made—begin falling apart. Henry tries to stir around them. At this rate they’ll be eating deconstructed lasagne.

“Let me,” Ryeowook says, curving his fingers over Henry’s hand and taking over the stirring. He flicks Henry a glance, part amusement and part command. “Cook the pasta.”

Sungmin strolls closer to inspect the cooking process. “Need any help?”

“Everything’s under control.” Henry gives Sungmin a toothy grin as he brandishes a saucepan. He hopes they bought enough elk pasta.

* * *

Dinner is a success, even if Hyukjae is caught sneaking potato chips from a bag hidden in his jacket pocket. Donghae removes this temptation by snatching the bag and upending the chips onto the floor. Hyukjae jumps up to remonstrate, grapples with Donghae, and a half-eaten cake wrapped in fancy paper falls out of his other pocket and gets trodden on.

Ryeowook watches all this from his place at the table and laughs. He’s happy and relaxed and he eats two small helpings and gets sauce in the corners of his mouth. Henry resists the urge to wipe away the smudges, then feels irrationally jealous when Sungmin leans across the table and cleans Ryeowook’s face instead.

“This is really good,” Siwon says, spearing one of the pasta shapes and examining it. “I like the reindeer.”

“It’s an elk,” Ryeowook corrects him.

“A moose,” Henry says at the same time.

Siwon gives a cautious nod. “It’s really good.”

Ryeowook eats another elk head. It’s the most that Henry’s seen him eat in forever—proper food, that is, not the bubble tea and snacks that make up their diet when they’re filming variety shows until four in the morning. He looks so happy, and Henry thinks he’d be glad to cook for the rest of their time in Taiwan if it would make Ryeowook smile like that every day.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Henry says, getting to his feet.

“No.” Ryeowook sends a wicked glare down the length of the table. “Donghae will do the dishes.”

“Dude.” Donghae leans back in his chair and adopts an angelic expression. “Didn’t you see? I did the dishes last night. All of them.”

“Lies!” Ryeowook wags a finger at him.

“We had to re-wash them, man. They were in a right state.” Henry manages to keep a straight face and shakes his head. “So grimy, yeah. It’s like you only used one bowl of water and you didn’t rinse afterwards. It was horrible.”

Donghae frowns. Turns his head to look at Siwon. “You told me—”

Siwon huffs and excuses himself from the table, muttering something about learning his lines for tomorrow.

Ryeowook taps his fingers on the table. Donghae shuffles his feet. “Okay, I’ll do it. Kyuhyun, you’re helping.”

Kyuhyun blinks. “No, I’m not.”

Further ridiculousness is avoided by Sungmin nominating Hyukjae to dry the dishes. Everyone else retreats to a safe distance while these tasks are accomplished to the accompaniment of over-loud comments, random bursts of song, and the crash of something breaking.

Henry sits on the arm of the sofa, both feet on the seat cushion. Ryeowook curls up at the opposite end of the couch and hugs his arms across his stomach. “I think I ate too much.”

“But it was good, yeah?”

Ryeowook gives him a smile of piercing sweetness. “It was good. But now I’m very full. And sleepy.”

“Stay here then. Rest a bit.” Henry looks for the remote control. “We can watch TV. A crappy drama or something.”

“Okay.” Ryeowook settles deeper into the corner of the sofa. His gaze flickers towards Henry then slides away. “I really ate too much.”

“I had, like, five portions. That’s too much.” Henry starts channel hopping. After a while he gives the remote to Ryeowook, who chooses a sappy drama and watches until the first ad break, then switches to a news programme.

Zhou Mi comes over, sleek and attentive in tight black jeans and a grey knit top that probably cost more than the entire of Henry’s wardrobe. His hair is styled into ruffles and he’s wearing eyeliner and he looks frankly terrifying, but in a good way. He casts a glance at them and says, “Li Xu. I’m going out.”

Ryeowook looks up and smiles brightly. “Have a good time.”

“No,” Zhou Mi says, tilting his head and driving emphasis into his words. “I’m _going out_.”

There’s a tiny pause, and then Ryeowook says, “Oh!” and darts a glance at Henry, very quick, before he looks back at Zhou Mi. “I think I’ll stay in.”

Zhou Mi raises his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”

“Just for tonight.” Ryeowook runs his forefinger over the armrest of the sofa. “I’ll come with you next time.” He’s almost blushing, but Henry can’t be sure because of the way Ryeowook’s hair falls.

Henry looks from Zhou Mi to Ryeowook and back again. “Where’re you going? Is it someplace fun?”

Zhou Mi’s smile is brittle. “It can be fun. Sometimes.”

“Then let’s go together.” Henry jumps off the sofa. He’s never been curious about Ryeowook’s nights out with Zhou Mi, assuming them to be shopping-oriented whenever he thought about it, which wasn’t very often because he was usually doing something more interesting himself, such as shooting hoops with Donghae or watching really hilarious porn with Hyukjae. He’s not curious now, either, but getting the groceries and cooking was so much fun that he wants to stick beside Ryeowook for a bit longer, and if that means going out and looking at leopard-print scarves and zebra-print bags and fuck knows what else, he can deal. “I’m ready. Let’s go now.”

“I’d prefer to stay in,” Ryeowook says, all soft and sleepy-like.

“Sure?” Zhou Mi asks again, quieter now, and this time he actually looks at Henry before flicking his attention back to Ryeowook.

There’s something between them, an odd sort of vibrato that Henry’s never noticed before, and whatever it is, whatever it means, it rubs him the wrong way. And that’s weird, because Henry likes Zhou Mi, and it’s kind of freaky to feel agitated like this. He sits back down, regains the remote control, and switches from the news programme to another drama.

He doesn’t catch what, if anything, Ryeowook replies to Zhou Mi. He stares at the TV with great concentration until he’s aware of Ryeowook shifting across the couch, and when he looks around, he realises that Zhou Mi has gone and Ryeowook is on the verge of leaving.

Henry turns off the TV and stands up. “Where are you going?”

Ryeowook blinks. “To my room.”

“I’ll come with you,” Henry announces, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Then, when Ryeowook looks startled, he adds, “I’ll... bring my keyboard. Yes. My keyboard! Didn’t you want to, like, practice? You can practice on my keyboard.”

Ryeowook considers. “There’s a piano downstairs.”

“Mimi will be practicing on it. He always hogs that piano.”

A smile sputters across Ryeowook’s lips. “Zhou Mi has gone out.”

“Ah, yeah.” Henry had forgotten about that. “The piano downstairs is crappy. Use my keyboard. Let me just fetch it—”

He darts out of the sitting room and hurries towards his bedroom, lifts his keyboard into his arms and runs halfway across the room before he realises the plug is still in the socket and he’s jerked back by the length of the power cord. So he goes and unplugs it, and then there’s the hassle with the adaptor, and he has to loop the cord around his neck, and finally he’s ready, he’s only been delayed by a few minutes, and he dashes out of his room and barges into Ryeowook’s room without bothering to knock, only Ryeowook isn’t there.

Henry deposits the keyboard and its tangled length of cable and adaptor plug on the bed and goes out into the corridor. He has the horrible idea that maybe Ryeowook has got food poisoning from the elk pasta and he hurries to the bathroom. He stands there for a moment, then puts his ear to the door. But that’s just wrong, because guys need their own space and privacy sometimes, so Henry backs off and shuffles around, and then the sounds of energetic game-play emerging from Kyuhyun’s room draw him to the open door to watch Hyukjae and Donghae’s units expire horrifically in a lava-bath while Kyuhyun’s characters leap to safety.

“Come and die with us,” Hyukjae invites.

Henry shakes his head. “Can’t, man. Things to do.” He backs away just as the bathroom door opens and Ryeowook emerges, his face pale and bright. He doesn’t look like he’s got food poisoning, but there’s something different, some sort of emotion brimming in him, but Henry can’t quite work out what it is. It kind of looks like excitement, but that doesn’t make any sense, because they’re just going to practice on the keyboard, but then Ryeowook is very dedicated and seems to enjoy the process of learning much more than anyone else in the group.

Ryeowook smiles, brushes the hair from his eyes. “I’m sorry to make you wait.”

“Uh, no problem.” Henry feels confusion knot around his certainty, not that he’s certain of anything where Ryeowook is concerned, and he gestures towards Ryeowook’s room. “The keyboard awaits. Let’s go.”

* * *

Henry wakes up in Ryeowook’s bed.

It takes him a moment to orient himself. It’s dark. He’s still dressed. He has a raging hard-on and Ryeowook is asleep next to him. Once these facts are apparent, Henry notices lesser details. Like, it’s actually not all that dark, because Ryeowook didn’t draw the curtains all the way last night and so there’s a yellow-white security light glow bleeding into the room. Also, although he’s still dressed, Ryeowook isn’t. Or at least he is, but he’s definitely not wearing jeans and a shirt any more. Henry’s hand is trapped against the side of Ryeowook’s thigh. That’s how he knows, because Ryeowook’s thigh is bare. And warm. And soft, but with a hard pull of muscle beneath.

Henry wonders if he should move his hand, because technically he’s sort of groping Ryeowook, but if he moves his hand, Ryeowook might wake up, and that could be embarrassing. Or not. Actually, it might be more embarrassing if it _wasn’t_ embarrassing. Henry thinks he’s getting confused again and lets his brain shift gears.

Ryeowook’s bed is really comfortable. That’s obviously why he fell asleep here. Henry remembers spending an hour or two helping Ryeowook practice on the keyboard. He doesn’t consider himself a good tutor, but for Ryeowook he somehow finds the patience within himself to slow down and advise, and he kind of likes it, especially when Ryeowook tilts his head and flips his hair and gives him a glistening look, eyes and teeth and soft, soft mouth.

He remembers the keyboard practice, and he remembers Sungmin coming in with a bottle of wine that he said was really expensive and it’d be a shame to waste it, and it was pretty awesome-tasting, and the lesson ended and Ryeowook asked him to play for them instead, and because drink always makes Henry want to show off, he switched the keyboard to the harpsichord setting and started on Rameau’s _Gavotte and Variations_. He played the gavotte too fast, not that anyone noticed, and so he had another drink and tried to explain what a gavotte is, and he remembers making a lame joke about Baroque n’ roll, and Sungmin looked blank and Ryeowook applauded like they were on a variety show and smiled and smiled, his cheeks flushed with the effects of the wine, and Henry remembers how gut-wrenchingly beautiful he looked.

Siwon came in sometime after that to complain that Sungmin had stolen his bottle of wine. Another bottle was produced from somewhere, and the evening descended into mindless chatter and random and often inaccurate recitals of SM Entertainment hits made more hilarious by the fact that the keyboard was still on the harpsichord setting.

Sungmin and Siwon left at some point, which should’ve been Henry’s signal to leave, too, except Henry remembers that he didn’t want to go and so—genius idea—he pretended to nap face-down on the keyboard.

He remembers Ryeowook rubbing his back, a comforting stroke across his shoulders and then a more tentative caress across skin, a light touch over his nape and into his hair. Then he must’ve fallen asleep for real, because he has only the fuzziest memory of waking once before, the keyboard taken from his embrace, and Ryeowook leading him to bed.

Henry supposes he should be glad he wasn’t wearing his baseball cap last night. How much lamer can anyone get? Lame for trying to impress Ryeowook with his cooking skills. Lame for trying to knock Ryeowook’s socks off with renditions of dances no one danced to any more written by dead Baroque composers. Just all-out lameness, really. He’s made of lame.

He tries to move his hand. Realises he should move his body first. Henry shifts sideways by about an inch. His hand has gone to sleep. He wiggles his fingers and manages to stroke Ryeowook’s thigh at the same time. That actually wasn’t part of his plan, and he freezes when Ryeowook mumbles something and stirs.

Henry lies still, heart pounding and his nerves jumpy. Ryeowook makes a small noise and turns onto his side, curling in against Henry’s warmth.

A whimper finds its way out of Henry’s mouth. He turns it into a cough, then hastily hushes himself, because, yeah, he _really_ doesn’t want Ryeowook to wake up right now, because his cock is way too hard and he feels kind of ticklish all over and he should get out of bed right this minute.

Ryeowook moves closer. He tucks his face against the crook of Henry’s neck. Ryeowook’s hair, soft and tumbled with sleep, does a slow slide against Henry’s throat. “Ahh,” Henry says, involuntarily and probably not as loud as he thinks it sounds, “uh.” He can’t handle this. Wincing, he bumps up his shoulder to shake Ryeowook off.

Another little murmur. Ryeowook twists away, taking most of the duvet with him. Henry breathes again. Too soon, as it turns out, because Ryeowook does a half-roll to lie supine and flings out a hand, and the back of his hand makes contact with Henry’s erection.

Henry makes a strangled gurgling noise. It’s not as if the contact was a punch or anything; no, it doesn’t _hurt_ , but the reality of Ryeowook’s hand anywhere in the vicinity of his cock makes Henry want to explode. And explosions are always messy, and now he really, really has to get out of here.

He manages to put one leg out of bed, foot on the floor, before Ryeowook turns over and cuddles up to Henry again. No shit, Ryeowook actually lays his head on Henry’s chest, face tilted up, a dream-smile on his lips. Henry thought that kind of thing only happened in movies.

Obviously not. Unless...

Suspicious, Henry stares at Ryeowook. What if this is all some kind of joke? What if Ryeowook is only pretending to be asleep? Henry listens to Ryeowook’s breathing, mostly steady, occasionally irregular, and studies his peaceful, smoothed-out expression. If Ryeowook is pretending, then he’s really good at it.

Henry dismisses the thought, too interested in examining the lines and curves and angles of the face tipped towards him. The indifferent light draws uneven blurs across Ryeowook’s expression, gentling everything.

He’s never understood why Ryeowook insists on wearing make-up all the time. It’s not like his skin is that bad. If anything, it’s soft and kind of peachy, and the contrast between it and the faint grey stripe of stubble on his top lip is really... _compelling_. Yeah, that’s it. Compelling. Henry stares at the hint of stubble and wonders if it’s soft, too. His gaze drifts down to Ryeowook’s mouth, pouted in sleep.

If only he would drool or snore or do something gross or funny. But no. He lies there, adorable and beautiful and breakable and—

That’s it, that’s absolutely it. Henry can’t take it any more. With a squashed howl of despair, he slides out of bed and thumps onto the floor. He lands on his tailbone, the shock of which momentarily cuts through the haze of lust. He sits up too fast and regrets it, his erection painful in his jeans. He swears, quietly and in English.

Ryeowook makes a dreamy sound. “Henry,” he says, and then he huddles back into the duvet.

The sound of his name on Ryeowook’s lips stops Henry for a moment, a lightning-strike of awareness going through him. He cradles the knowledge, hugs it close, then bolts across the floor, creeps across the corridor, and takes refuge in his own room, where he reacquaints himself with his right hand and a packet of tissues.

* * *

Henry feels embarrassed, or perhaps ‘awkward’ is a better word for it, and while he can usually get through embarrassing awkwardness and awkward embarrassment by acting like a loon, this time he can’t bring himself to do it. His jokes are lamer than ever. His pranks are so bad they make Donghae’s antics look downright hilarious. It’s like he’s dying on stage, and the one giving him the slow handclap is Ryeowook.

Hardly anyone else notices, which is both a relief and a kick in the teeth. Sungmin casually enquires if either of them recycled the bottles from the other night, and Henry says no, because he didn’t do anything with the bottles, and then he spends the next half-hour wondering if Sungmin was speaking in some kind of code.

Zhou Mi gives him strafing looks every now and then, but he never says anything, and to Henry’s face he’s as polite and charming as he always is, except when he’s not, but that’s just Zhou Mi. And Henry thinks he knows Zhou Mi well enough by now that if there was a problem, if he’d done something wrong, then Zhou Mi would just let rip and screech at him rather than snipe from a distance.

Essentially he avoids Ryeowook, which is difficult to do when they’re shoved together for about eighteen hours a day, but obviously Ryeowook gets the message regardless, because he gets even friendlier and hangs all over Henry during the filming of one TV show, and it’s like some sort of punishment.

They get back to the dorms early that night, just after ten o’clock, and Siwon and Donghae are already lounging around and bickering over who screwed up their coffee order on the set. Hyukjae immediately takes Donghae’s side. Sungmin offers his support to Siwon. Kyuhyun tells them they’re all fuckwits. Ryeowook goes around closing the blinds and curtains against the night. Zhou Mi refuses to join in the discussion and retires to his room just as Siwon challenges Donghae to a game of basketball.

“Henry, come with us,” Siwon says, but Henry really isn’t in the mood.

“Nah, I’ll—” He can’t even think of a good excuse, so he just shrugs and gestures towards his room. “Sorry, guys.”

Siwon gives him a glance, blade-sharp, and pauses. Henry fixes a grin in place and dashes for his room. He doesn’t want Siwon to start asking what’s wrong.

His keyboard is back on its stand. His guitar is propped in a corner. Though the litter bin has been emptied, his clothes have not learned how to hang themselves up or tidy themselves away, and for some reason one of his Reeboks is on the sill _outside_ the window while the other one seems to have migrated to the top of the wardrobe.

He draws the curtains without bothering to rescue the stranded Reebok, then flops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. It’s kind of stippled, so he starts counting each blob, but that gets pretty boring after, like, ten. Henry rolls onto his side. He feels out of place and—not depressed, exactly, but it feels like everything that’s exciting has been damped down or put behind a glass wall or something.

Usually he can lift this kind of mood by playing his keyboard, but he can’t be bothered getting up and untangling the cord and switching it on. Maybe he should try the guitar, but right now he’s got the mind for John Lee Hooker rather than Jason Mraz, and he’s not that good.

Which leaves the violin.

Henry uncurls from the bed and goes over to the violin case, flicks open the locks, and takes out the instrument. He settles it on his shoulder, lifts the bow, tucks in his chin. Touches the bow to the strings. Closes his eyes. The room spins around him. He draws in a breath, feels the floor beneath his feet, feels the delicacy of the violin, the infinitesimal quiver of the strings and the suggestion of the notes.

He has no clear thought of what to play. He lets his mood dictate, abandoning rational choice to lean on whim. At first he raises discord from the instrument, then he plays scales, then arpeggios. These meld into a variation on Bach’s _Chaconne_ , and halfway through he switches abruptly, changes tempo, sweeps his emotion into his playing and sways into the music.

Belatedly he realises that someone is knocking at the door.

“Yo,” he calls out, releasing the bow and violin and holding both at his sides.

The door opens, and Ryeowook comes in. There’s a look of determination on his face, and his gaze is steady while Henry darts glances all around the room.

“The other night,” Ryeowook says, and that’s such a terrifying beginning that Henry returns the violin and bow to the case and sits on the bed because he doesn’t think he can stand up for this. Or maybe he should stand up, because he’s taller than Ryeowook and that could give him the psychological advantage, but he doesn’t think he’d gain anything by it.

“The other night,” Henry echoes, and his voice sounds hollow.

Ryeowook advances across the floor. He plucks at the hem of his t-shirt, strokes his fingers over the top of his thighs, tucks his thumbs into his jeans pockets, then swings his hands forward and clasps them together just for a moment before letting them break apart.

This display of uncertainty should make Henry relax, but it doesn’t. It just makes everything more difficult.

Ryeowook looks away. Flips his hair. Puts one hand in his back pocket and takes up a stance with his weight through one hip. He sighs. “I think I’ve been a bit stupid.”

Henry sits up straight. He wasn’t expecting that. “Huh?”

“I misunderstood.” Ryeowook drops his gaze and studies the floor. His cheeks are faintly pink. “The other night. When you were being kind. I thought—” The words emerge jerky and uncoordinated, and then Ryeowook lifts his chin and blinks rapidly, brushes again at the strained-honey-gold of his fringe. “I’m usually good at understanding things. But I misunderstood you.”

“Uh-huh.” Henry isn’t too sure what Ryeowook is saying, or thinks he’s saying, so it’s better for him to just make neutral, noncommittal sounds right now and wait until some sort of coherency emerges.

“Zhou Mi pointed it out. It was obvious, really, but I... I’m a fool sometimes.” Ryeowook smiles, a quick flash of a smile that dissolves into sadness, and Henry wants to jump up and punch Zhou Mi in the face even though he still doesn’t totally get what the fuck is going on here.

“Zhou Mi?” he repeats instead. “Uh, what did he say?”

Ryeowook blushes again. He can’t seem to look at Henry. “The other day, when we made dinner together. You wanted to stay with me afterwards. We were... hanging out,” he says the last two words in English, “and you stayed. I thought maybe—but no. And I didn’t understand, and Zhou Mi said perhaps it was because of the food thing, yes? You were worried.”

He looks up now, looks straight at Henry, and there’s a weird sort of expression on his face, sort of humiliation and hope. He fidgets again. “You thought because I ate a lot, I would make myself sick.”

Henry lets out a breath. This is so not going where he thought it was going. He doesn’t know what to say, although he wants to ask why the hell Ryeowook was talking about him to Zhou Mi, but to ask would be grossly insensitive because this conversation doesn’t seem to be about him right now.

“I don’t do that any more.” Ryeowook’s uncertainty becomes ferocity. “Did someone tell you otherwise?”

“No. I mean, I might have heard something about it from someone once. Ages ago. I don’t even remember who or what. Just...” Henry feels like he’s treading in an emotional minefield, and he’s no good at stuff like this, no good at all, and the best thing to do is just run and scream. He starts talking without thinking, not allowing any censorship. “Aw, crap, Wookie, you hardly ever eat anything even when we’re all starving! I know it’s not my business but you should eat more than a couple of rice crackers and bubble tea and a bit of shaved ice. I know it’s not my business but it kind of is at the same time, so yeah, maybe I was thinking about it a little bit, I thought if we made something together, something decent, then you might just eat it, but I swear that has nothing to do with the other night. Honestly. You are what you are and you do what you do and—”

He stops himself from running on and on. He puts his palms together, covers his mouth and nose, and exhales into his hands. He feels weirdly disappointed that Ryeowook—through the misdirecting agency of Zhou Mi—has misunderstood the situation. Not that he was entirely clear about what was happening between them the other night, either, but at least he didn’t go asking advice from, say, Donghae.

What a fuck-up. Henry drops his hands. “It’s not my goddamn business. I’m sorry.” He stops. He doesn’t know what he’s apologising for.

Ryeowook tilts his head. His hair shifts, tumbles into layers and swings against his cheek. “It’s okay.” He hesitates. His throat works, then he says, “I used to be fat.”

Henry looks at him. No point in saying he knows, he’s seen the pictures; no point at all, because Ryeowook wasn’t the one who told him, wasn’t the one who showed him, and this is different, this is brand-new. This is Ryeowook _trusting_ him, and he needs to be worthy of this. He stays quiet and waits for more.

“I was fat,” Ryeowook says, voice shot through with steel, “and now I’m not. It’s not always easy getting what you want.”

“No,” Henry says, distant memories dancing gavottes, the recollection of hours spent practising until all the joy went from his performances and he had only misery to pour into his music, and beyond that it became mechanical, notes on a page with no meaning behind them.

Ryeowook straightens his stance. Flips his hair. “I’m just particular about eating. There’s not a problem.” The rider of _any more_ goes unsaid. It hangs between them until he smiles, shy and broken, and says, “But thank you for caring.”

Henry feels stupid. He’s not the only one to care about Ryeowook. He wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last. The knowledge should cheer him, but it makes him want to choke.

Ryeowook comes and sits beside him, puts a hand on Henry’s knee. “You’re so kind, Henry,” he murmurs. He sounds solemn. Henry doesn’t want to be thought of as kind. He wants Ryeowook to think of him as—as... He doesn’t know. No, that’s not true. He just wants Ryeowook to think of him, period.

“Uh,” he says, and that’s the sum total of his cleverness.

Ryeowook doesn’t seem to mind. He leans closer, his slender weight against Henry’s arm as he tips back his head and gazes up. His fringe is in his eyes again. Henry doesn’t dare brush it aside. He doesn’t think he could bear to put his clumsy great hands that close to such a delicate face. This is awkward enough as it is.

“I like you, Henry,” Ryeowook says, and there’s a husky depth to his voice, a rawness that doesn’t usually come through even when they’ve been singing for several hours straight. The timbre of his voice strokes up Henry’s spine. “You’re different,” Ryeowook continues, like it’s a good thing.

“Different to what?” Henry asks, then wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. He snaps his gaze away, not wanting to see Ryeowook’s reaction. Of course he’s different. He’s always been different, and not in the same way that Han Geng was different or Zhou Mi is different.

Ryeowook tightens his grasp on Henry’s knee. “You’re...” he pauses, searching for the word, silent for almost too long, “free.”

Again, so not what Henry was expecting. “Free,” he repeats—really, he’s getting good at repetitions—and he thinks how laughable it is.

“People understand you,” Ryeowook says, and there’s a sliver of desperation in his voice, as if he’s trying to communicate something deep and profound, except Henry is too dense to get it.

Frustration rears up. “No,” he says, and it comes out more violently than he intends, “no, they don’t. Y’know what, I speak six languages. Okay, I might not be great in all of them, not fluent or anything, but still, it’s really something when I’m misunderstood or—or misrepresented in every single language.”

Ryeowook stares at him. Blinks. “Even in English?”

“Oh, man.” Henry puts a hand to the back of his head; remembers he’s not wearing a baseball cap. He drops his hand to his knee, then shifts his fingers sideways until he covers Ryeowook’s hand. “Especially in English.”

Ryeowook’s expression softens, glimmers with understanding. “I’m—”

“It’s okay.” Henry turns on his goofiest grin. “It’s not like I joined Super Junior M in search of an identity or anything. Because that would be weird. Taiwanese-Cantonese Canadian looking for understanding with a bunch of Koreans aimed at the Chinese market. That would be some fucked-up shit, y’know? But it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Ryeowook’s voice turns fierce.

“I just thought it’d be fun.” It sounds so hollow, and besides, it’s not true. Not entirely. Henry shrugs, curls his fingers tighter around Ryeowook’s hand. “I wanted to be noticed, wanted to be a star, but I didn’t want to be known as ‘that Asian kid’. Instead I’m ‘that Canadian douchebag’.”

“You’re not a—a douchebag.” Ryeowook frowns at the English word. “Not that I know what that is.” He smiles, and it’s sweet and tender and Henry _really_ wants to kiss him, and that would be inappropriate, as inappropriate as jerking off whilst thinking about him, and well, that logic is flawed now, isn’t it?

“Uh,” says Henry, because sometimes repetition is a good form of defence.

“I auditioned because I wanted a sense of identity,” Ryeowook says, and then he bites his lip and looks away, pale all of a sudden. He shakes his head, looks back at Henry. “The old story. Lonely fat kid wants to conquer the world. Guess I’m not there yet.”

Henry wants to disagree, but he can’t. They’re not there yet, neither of them. He knows there’s more, for him and for Ryeowook. There has to be more. He’ll make sure of it. He doesn’t know how, but he’ll make it happen.

He drops his gaze and stares at Ryeowook’s hand half hidden beneath his own. Ryeowook’s wrist is fine-boned, his fingers beautiful, his nails perfect. Henry gets that clumsy feeling again and his palm goes all clammy and he lifts his hand away. He wants to wipe it on his trousers but that would be gross, so he makes a fist and then doesn’t know what to do with it. Eventually he buries both hands in the front hem of his t-shirt.

They sit together in awkward silence. Slowly, self-consciously, Ryeowook takes his hand from Henry’s knee. The silence grows heavier.

“What were you playing just now?” Ryeowook asks.

This seems like a safe topic of conversation. Henry clears his throat, recalls going from Bach to Sibelius and finally... “Vivaldi.”

Ryeowook wrinkles his nose. “It didn’t sound like the Vivaldi you usually play.”

“The Vanessa-Mae version? That’s the _Presto_ from the Summer movement.” Henry waves in dismissal. It was his audition piece, and he’s performed it so many times on variety shows that he’s forgotten the emotion behind it.

“The music you played was slower,” Ryeowook says. “More measured.” He dances his fingers through the air. “Thoughtful and sad. Like rain.”

“ _Largo_.” Henry pushes off from the bed and retrieves the violin, seats it between shoulder and chin. “It’s from Winter.”

Although the score doesn’t demand it, he starts with a few bars of pizzicato, raindrops on cold, bare earth, then picks up the melody. It’s simple, this piece, haunting and beautiful, a dazzle of fragile virtuosity that can be ornamented according to caprice, and he’s halfway through a flourishing vibrato when he realises the piece reminds him of Ryeowook.

The awareness should surprise him, but it doesn’t. Henry closes his eyes and enters the music, feeling it lift and transcend into something beyond his comprehension. It flows around him, wraps him up, and when it comes to an end, it shocks him.

Ryeowook sits rapt, his expression aglow. He looks at Henry with adoration, and Henry knows it’s not him, it’s the music Ryeowook admires so much, and he can’t even feel hurt by the knowledge. Not after a performance like that.

“Raindrops,” Ryeowook whispers. “I knew it had raindrops in it.”

Henry doesn’t say anything. It gets like that sometimes. Words become meaningless after he’s squeezed out his soul into music. He eases the violin from his shoulder and sets it back in its case. He’s dazed, caught in the thrall of the melody, and though he’s aware of Ryeowook speaking, he doesn’t really hear what’s said. He turns, the bow still in his hand, and attempts to focus.

Ryeowook smiles. “What does it feel like?”

Henry tries to understand. He’s too slow to respond, doesn’t know precisely what Ryeowook wants to hear. He moves back to the bed, his wits still mired in the music but his senses wide open, his body comprehending long before his mind.

“The bow,” Ryeowook says, and reaches out for it. “Watching you play... How does it... Can I...?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Henry realises nothing Ryeowook said was a question; rather, it was a statement of intent. Ryeowook curves his hand around the bow. He takes a breath, holds it. He slides his fingers up the carbon fibre stick to the tip, avoiding Henry’s grip on the bow, then trails the caress down to the silver frog at the bottom. His expression is bright with wonder. He’s looking at the bow, not at Henry. There’s not a hint of suggestiveness about the action, which just makes it all the more painfully erotic.

Henry swallows. Ryeowook moves his hand, goes to touch the tight ribbon of horsehair, glossed with sticky remnants of rosin. At last Henry finds his voice. “You mustn’t touch,” he says, and the words emerge growly and deep. “It—it...” He pauses; wants to explain that oils from the skin get into the rosin and make the violin sound muffled and clunky, and the bow would have to be cleaned if it’s touched, but he stops himself, aware not of rational thought but of the sudden skip and pound of his heart.

Before Ryeowook can touch the horsehair, Henry lifts the bow, strokes it over the back of Ryeowook’s fingers. He does it gently, smoothing the ribbon of hair over Ryeowook’s knuckles, across his wrist, up his arm. When he reaches the capped sleeve of Ryeowook’s t-shirt, he carefully jumps the bow from Ryeowook’s bicep to his face, touches the tip of the bow in circles over his cheek.

Ryeowook sits very still, his hands clutched tight in his lap. His breathing accelerates. A wave of hectic colour blooms. He makes the smallest, softest noise when Henry, moving as if through a dream, limbs heavy and awareness heightened, runs the tip of the bow up into his hair. It catches slightly. Ryeowook’s brow furrows just a little; his lips part. His head tilts back, the long fringe fanning flat into his eyes. He turns his face against the horsehair ribbon and kisses the bow.

Henry gasps, the sound harsh and unmusical. Until then he could’ve pretended this was just a game, but now it’s real and it has consequences, and he can’t stop himself. He wants to touch Ryeowook. He wants to see Ryeowook squirm beneath his caresses.

The bow dips, strokes down the side of Ryeowook’s neck. Henry watches its progress with a kind of dazed wonder. It’s an extension of his desire, like it’s always been, but never has his desire been realised in such a physical way, and he’s afraid of breaking the spell. He lets the bow speak for him, a conduit for gavottes and chaconnes and sonatas.

The tip catches beneath the collar of the t-shirt. Ryeowook takes it off, hasty and trembling. His eyes flash, hunger and wild hope obliterating the previous forced calm.

Henry strokes him, drawing the bow back up Ryeowook’s arm then, with tiny flicks as if the bow was a goad, urges him to lie on the bed. Ryeowook is slender but possesses great strength; he’s fragile but not brittle. Henry wants to make him vibrate with song, wants to set him free of strings and varnish and pegs turned too tight. With careful strokes of the bow, he explores every part of Ryeowook’s body: ribs, waist, chest, nipples, leaning into the bowing a little harder when Ryeowook mews for more, but not hard enough to draw colour from his skin. The ribbon of horsehair leaves the suggestion of sticky rosin tracks, not quite gliding, not quite catching.

When Henry gentles his stroke, Ryeowook pushes up against the bow. His eyes close and he shifts restlessly. Henry trails the bow down over the bulge in Ryeowook’s jeans, strokes over it back and forth, fortissimo, pianissimo. Ryeowook unfastens his jeans, wriggles them down just a little. Hands shaking, Henry strokes the bow over Ryeowook’s cock, outlined hard and strong beneath his underwear. He can smell desire now, hot and feral, and he touches the bow-stick to the sodden wet cling of cotton over the head of Ryeowook’s erection.

He wants more, taps at Ryeowook’s hands, a silent demand for him push both jeans and underwear down to twist around his knees. Henry runs the bow across Ryeowook’s thighs. Ryeowook pushes his head onto the mattress, back arching, hips canting, incoherent noises spilling from his lips and his hands grasping at the duvet.

Henry can’t stop. It feels unreal, still dreamlike, arousal thrumming like engine noise, like a dozen metronomes weighted to different tempos. He’s careful, so careful in what he’s doing, but for all his care he’s already lost, caught in Ryeowook’s reality. He can only follow, first violinist subordinate to his conductor.

Ryeowook slides both hands down the length of his body and jerks off while Henry plays him, staccato and glides of bowing. Ryeowook’s hair drapes in his eyes, obscuring half of his face; all Henry can see is Ryeowook’s mouth, lips plump and bitten, harsh gasps breaking the heavy silence.

Henry wants to write fucking _symphonies_ for him.

Ryeowook tosses his head with a spray of strained-honey-gold hair. His eyes open wide. “Oh,” he breathes, the sound sliding into a moan. “Oh, _Henry_.”

Henry has enough presence of mind to whisk the bow away before Ryeowook comes all over it.

He doesn’t know what to do afterwards. He has no clue what he should do with Ryeowook almost naked and dazed and languid on his bed, body striped with spunk and glowing with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead and that look in his eyes, the look that shreds every sensible thought in Henry’s head.

He knows he should fetch a towel or some tissues or even the scrumpled-up t-shirt that’s been sitting on the floor for the past five days—he should fetch _something_ and he should clean Ryeowook up, or Ryeowook can clean himself up, or whatever. He knows he should pull the duvet over Ryeowook, or encourage him to get dressed, or something. He knows he should probably say the kind of thing Ryeowook expects him to say, something douchey and Canadian, a way of laughing this off, except he can’t think of anything remotely funny, and instead his mouth is full of words like _want_ and _you_ and _fuck_ and _need_ , and the worst word of all, the one too sharp and painful for him to swallow and dismiss, is _love_.

Shit. He’s in love with Ryeowook. This is a disaster.

“Henry,” Ryeowook says, his voice soft and sweet, his smile bright and uncertain. “Henry—” He pauses like he wants to say something else but has forgotten his lines. He lifts a hand in invitation.

Henry can’t breathe. The bow drops and clatters on the floor. He goes closer. He wants to touch Ryeowook. Touch him properly, skin on skin, a different kind of music.

Ryeowook’s gaze becomes slumberous. “Henry,” he whispers, and he moves just a little, his thighs parting, hips arching upwards, and it’s done incrementally, subtly, but all the same, the offer is unmistakeable.

Henry is so hard it hurts. Another step, and then the thread of fantasy is cut. He jerks into his senses and blunders back. Off-balance, he treads hard on something on the floor. He hears the crack just as he registers what’s beneath his foot, and he yelps. Pain—or is it panic, he can’t tell—rocks through him and he drops to his knees, gathers up the injured bow. He lays it across his arm, cradles it, assessing the damage as he would to a broken limb. The tip has snapped: a clean break, but a costly one.

“Oh.” Ryeowook pulls the duvet around himself and rolls onto his side to stare at the bow. “Oh, Henry. I’m sorry.” He sounds devastated, and when Henry looks up, Ryeowook’s eyes are luminous with tears. “Can you fix it?”

“Not me.” Henry wants to cast the bow aside in a fit of pique, but can’t bring himself to do it. It was a good bow. Not his favourite, but still, that’s not the point.

“I’ll pay,” Ryeowook says, sitting up. His knees press against Henry’s shoulder. “Let me pay. I’ll get it mended.”

“You can’t.” Henry gets to his feet and places the broken bow back in the violin case. “Fixing it will change the balance. It’ll make a different sound.” He closes the case with a thud. He can’t bring himself to look at Ryeowook. “It just won’t be the same.”

* * *

Henry asks one of their managers to get the bow fixed. There must be an archetier or luthier somewhere in Taipei. He has other bows, but perversely, now that one is broken, it’s the only one he wants to use. He goes back to the guitar, and after another long day of filming, sits with Sungmin in the kitchen playing Eric Clapton, making up slow variant riffs for ‘Cocaine’.

He’s not avoiding Ryeowook. At least, he doesn’t think he is. In fact, it seems like Ryeowook is avoiding him, and Henry isn’t sure why. He can’t stop thinking about what happened between them, what almost happened, what _could_ have happened.

It sort of hurts to think about it, because it makes him aware of the differences. He knows he gets a lot of free passes because he’s different; he blunders through situations being Canadian-polite, and even now he still doesn’t know when to bow and sometimes he uses the wrong honorific, and there’s a proper way of doing things, especially courtship things, romantic type-things, and he has no clue.

What he should do is get Ryeowook alone and talk to him, but maybe the other night was all there was, and it was just the music and the need for comfort or something like that. Henry doesn’t want to give ear to the little voice that says _you love Ryeowook_ because this is already so messed up, actually being in love with Ryeowook would make things, like, a million times worse.

Halfway through ‘Layla’, Sungmin stops playing and fiddles with the tuning pegs. Henry stops, too, and watches Sungmin.

Without looking at him, Sungmin says, “You should just tell him how you feel.”

Henry isn’t sure he heard that right. “Huh?”

Sungmin plays a chord, silences the strings, and loosens a peg. “Ryeowook. Tell him.” Another chord, and Sungmin nods at the sound.

“Uh.” Henry hates the idea that he’s so transparent. “Are you, like, a mind-reader or something?”

Sungmin gives him a patient smile. “I don’t talk a lot, but I notice everything.”

“Dude, that’s kind of scary.”

“If you say so.” Sungmin strums the opening bars of the song. “From the top?”

“No. Wait.” A jitter of nervousness thumps at Henry. “Am I that obvious?”

“About as obvious as Ryeowook.”

Henry blinks. “ _He’s_ obvious?”

Sungmin lifts his head, his expression one of mild surprise. “Yes.”

“But...” Henry’s thoughts whirl. The only time Ryeowook was obvious was the other night, because yeah, he supposes it’s kind of obvious when a guy gets undressed and allows you to get him off with a violin bow, but otherwise... “I don’t understand.”

Sungmin splays his fingers, taps the belly of his guitar. “He likes you. You like him. What is there to understand?”

“But—”

“I don’t know how it’s done in Canada, but I’m pretty sure it can’t be all that different to how it’s done in Korea or anywhere else in the world, for that matter.” Sungmin strokes out another chord, modulating it into a sweet fall of sound. “Sometimes there are no differences, yes? Just similarities.”

“Uh.” Henry wonders if his tongue has got stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Um.”

Sungmin stops playing and looks at him. “You _do_ like Ryeowook, don’t you?”

A blush flames across Henry’s face. “Yes. Yes, a lot. Uh, I mean—”

There’s a noise behind him, an indrawn breath or a shuffle of feet or something, and Sungmin smiles and shakes his fringe into his eyes as he dips his head, and Henry turns to see Ryeowook, beautiful and untouchable, his expression rich with awareness. They gaze at each other in circling silence, and then Ryeowook says, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I, uh. I.” Henry closes his mouth so hard his teeth hurt. “I...”

Sungmin slides off his chair, murmuring something about watching Youtube, and goes off with his guitar held close.

Henry puts his own guitar on the table and stands up. He hopes his posture and expression are full of determination. Ryeowook looks slightly alarmed, and Henry deflates. There’s a reason why guys don’t talk to one another. It’s hard. And he knows he’ll sound like a dork, or worse, a douchebag.

“Ryeowook,” he says, and winces inwardly at how formal he sounds.

Ryeowook goes very still. “Henry.”

“I...” Henry begins again in English, then he switches in rapid succession from Korean to Mandarin, then doubts he can have this conversation in any language and maybe he should stick to English, because then Ryeowook might not understand him, which is stupid because doesn’t he _want_ Ryeowook to understand? And he’s confusing himself again, and his mind has gone completely blank, and so he says in a hodgepodge of languages, “I really like you and I think you like me, and not just because of the other night, and I’m sorry I’ve been a douchebag and I don’t mean to be oblivious, but sometimes I just _am_ oblivious, okay, but it doesn’t change how I feel, and I feel a lot for you. And I don’t want to offend you, but I probably have, because of being a douchebag, because I was worried, y’know, I was worried about you, about _us_ , what it would do to—to _dynamics_ , y’know, the group and all, and...”

“Henry.” Ryeowook comes closer. His eyes are shining. “Shut up.”

“Shut up? Sure, I can do that, I can—”

Ryeowook leans up and kisses him. Not some half-assed peck, either, but full-on, all teeth and tongue, and then Ryeowook hooks his arms up beneath Henry’s arms and hangs onto his shoulders like he wants to fuse them together, and that’s okay, that’s more than okay, and Henry is trying to process the fact that Ryeowook kisses really, really well at the same time as realising that Ryeowook’s hair is crazily messed up and kind of joining in the kiss, too, and then he works out that it’s because _his_ hands are in Ryeowook’s hair, tumbling it all over the place, and—

The kiss breaks as abruptly as it started. Ryeowook falls back, though his fingers tighten on Henry’s shoulders so neither of them can move very far from the other. Ryeowook looks wrecked, skin flushed, eyes gleaming, mouth quirked in lazy satisfaction, and his hair an absolute mess. It’s a really excellent look on him, and Henry wonders if he can get their stylists to fix it so Ryeowook looks like this all the damn time.

“Okay, wow,” Henry manages to gasp out, “wow, that was...”

“Not unexpected,” Ryeowook says. “Long overdue.”

“You’re _really_ bossy.” Henry mans up and kisses him in return, just teasing flicks of tongue against Ryeowook’s lips. “I think I like it.”

They kiss again, something mutual and hot and soul-stealing. By common consent they manoeuvre against one of the kitchen cupboards, which is a lot more stable than they are and unlikely to fall over within the next few minutes. Henry presses Ryeowook against the door. Ryeowook slides one leg up around Henry’s knee and does a sort of hopping motion that Henry responds to— _whipped already, boy_ —and he half lifts, half holds Ryeowook in place and carries on kissing him.

A loud cough nearby makes them pause for breath. Ryeowook moans in protest at the enforced separation of their mouths. Henry gets momentarily distracted by a dozen things specific to Ryeowook’s lips, then he tears his attention to where Zhou Mi is standing and studying them with genteel fascination.

“At last,” Zhou Mi says. “All that tension was giving me a headache.” He brushes past them, shaking his head, and puts the kettle on to boil.

Henry grins. He’s still holding Ryeowook, so he relaxes his grip and sets him back on his feet, enjoying Ryeowook’s continued clinging grasp. Henry’s not too sure what to do now, but he’ll figure it out. Or Ryeowook will tell him. Or they’ll just manage to work things out together.

It feels kind of pointless now, but Henry remembers what he was going to say before the kiss, and though it’s pointless, he wants it as a coda. He brushes the mussed strained-honey-gold hair out of Ryeowook’s eyes and says, “By the way, I’m having the bow fixed.”

Ryeowook blinks. “You said it couldn’t be fixed.”

“It can. But it’ll sound different.” Henry shrugs. “So what if it sounds different. I can still play music with it, right?”

“Right.” Ryeowook smiles, laughs, and snuggles against him, cute and demanding and suggestive.

Henry feels like he’s home.


End file.
